My wife is a dancer. After we got married, she feared it would affect her career and refused to have children. So, I took the initiative to undergo a sterilization procedure.

Ten years later, I received demolition compensation worth tens of millions. Suddenly, three children appeared, claiming a share of it.

After a thorough investigation, I discovered they were triplets—Mike, Mick, and Macky—born to my wife and her childhood sweetheart. She had named them after him: Mickey Field.

My mother-in-law had taken my financial support and used it to buy them a spacious apartment in her hometown. Meanwhile, Sabrina Roth frequently traveled between two cities under the pretense of performances and further studies.

Shocked and furious, I confronted her. “Why?”

She met my gaze, unflinching. “For the childhood promise.”

In a fit of rage, I smashed the marble coffee table. We argued, voices echoing through the house.

Relatives and friends urged me to reconsider.

"You married your first love straight out of school. So many people envy you! What’s the harm in acknowledging a few children?"

"You can't have kids anyway. Isn't this the perfect arrangement?"

"For all these years, Sabrina never looked down on you for not being a real man. Now that you're wealthy, having children to inherit your fortune is a blessing."

Swallowing the pain, I looked at Sabrina—still youthful and beautiful in her thirties.

"Give them some money and send them away. That’s my final compromise."

She stood tall, her expression resolute.

"They are my children, and they have the right to inherit my assets. If you don’t agree, we’ll settle this in court."

Coldly, I wiped the blood from my hand, my heart devoid of any desire to salvage our marriage.

"Sabrina, let’s divorce."

——

My mother-in-law sprang to her feet and hurled a teacup at my head.

"You worthless man! How dare you ask for a divorce? If anyone should be filing, it's our Sabrina! What right do you have?"

Relatives restrained her, taking turns to talk me out of it.

Sabrina’s face darkened as she glared at me. "Zach Ward, you want a divorce? And then what?"

Surrounded by chaos—relatives arguing, my mother-in-law hurling accusations—I felt suffocated.

This was the woman I had cherished, the elder I had respected like a mother. And yet, somehow, my wife’s betrayal was being twisted into my fault.

Sensing my shift in demeanor, Sabrina softened her voice.

"Zach, I know I’ve wronged you, but I had my reasons."

"Mickey and I were betrothed as children. Breaking that promise to marry you was already a betrayal. He’s been alone all these years—having children was my way of making it up to him."

"We’ve been married for twelve years. I thought you would understand me, and support me. How could you humiliate me like this in front of everyone?"

She spoke as if she had no choice, making me out to be heartless, unwilling to see the bigger picture.

Her words stirred something within me.

I closed my eyes, remembering how, ten years ago, she had danced like an ethereal peacock in my heart.

But my mother-in-law had already accepted a dowry from Mickey’s family and demanded double the amount to break the engagement. She claimed Mickey had promised to buy her a house and marry into their family.

When I brought it up to my parents, my father kicked me to the ground.

"You ungrateful son! Do you want to marry into a rural family? If you walk out that door, I’ll burn down the furniture factory and disown you!"

Through relentless efforts, I convinced him to provide the dowry and even promised my mother-in-law a down payment for a small house.

I worked tirelessly—taking side jobs, working overtime—until I secretly saved enough to buy her a house in full and move her to the city.

After we got married, Sabrina insisted on focusing on her career and refused to have children. So, I had a vasectomy and even got a medical certificate declaring me infertile.

Shortly after our wedding, both families began pressuring us to have children. I showed them my diagnosis of infertility, hoping to silence the rumors.

From that moment, my mother-in-law’s attitude toward me changed. She openly declared that I wasn’t a real man, that her daughter was as beautiful as a flower, and that it was a misfortune for her to have married a failure like me.

Sabrina noticed her mother’s harsh words, while my parents dragged me to specialists, desperately seeking a solution. One day, she hesitated before saying,

"Zach, why don’t I just tell them the truth? That I want to dance and don’t want children."

I pulled her into my arms, whispering, "Sabrina, if your mother knows you don’t want children, can you handle the pressure from your parents?"

"I can bear the insults and scolding—but can you? Are you willing to sacrifice your dance career?"

Sabrina fell silent.

That night, I looked into her eyes and said firmly,

"Keep dancing for as long as you want. If one day you change your mind and want to be a mother, tell me. I’ll undergo surgery so we can have a child."

"As long as it’s what you truly want, I’ll always support you."

A year into our marriage, Sabrina got an opportunity to study abroad at her own expense. Without hesitation, I withdrew funds from my family’s furniture factory and sent her away.

From that day on, my mother-in-law’s attitude softened. She stopped calling me a worthless man and spent more time in her hometown, claiming she preferred the fresh air and found the small house I bought for her too stifling.

I thought she had finally accepted me, that she was giving us the space to enjoy our married life.

I was wrong.

She had been staying in a neighboring city, taking care of her “three good nephews.”

Only later did I realize—Sabrina had never gone abroad to study. She had used my money to have a child.

I swallowed my heartbreak.

"Sabrina, did you ever think about me? Did you consider how I would feel?"

Seeing the pain in my eyes, a flicker of guilt crossed her face.

"I’m sorry, Zach," she whispered. "I just didn’t want you to suffer anymore. I didn’t want a child to disrupt our lives."

Then she added, "Mickey said that by having a child, he could fulfill his duty to carry on the family name. He’s content to raise the child alone, never marry, never start a new family, and never disturb us. If you’re willing, he even agrees that the child can respect you and call you godfather in the future."

I let out a bitter laugh.

"So Mickey is that considerate? Afraid I’d have no one to care for me in my old age, he went ahead and had three sons for me? Should I bow down and thank him for his generosity? Otherwise, I might really die alone."

Sabrina gave a faint smile.

"Forget the thanks. Mickey may be a few years younger than you, but he’s mature and selfless. He knows his position is… complicated, yet he’s never complained. He’s devoted himself to raising the children, so I never had to worry about their future."

"Now that the kids are older and we’re financially stable, I think it’s time to give him some security. We should give Mickey one million from demolition compensation—consider it repayment for his sacrifices over the past decade. We’ll also buy him a four-bedroom apartment here. Once the children settle in, they’ll live with him."

"I’ll visit occasionally, fulfill my responsibility as their mother."

She said it so casually, yet each word struck my chest like a hammer.

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, my voice hoarse.

"Sabrina, are you building a second family outside our marriage?"

"Don’t you think this is cruel? How do you expect me to face our relatives and friends?"

For the first time, a trace of embarrassment flickered across her face.

"Zach, I know I’ve wronged you. But for years, you always said you didn’t care about gossip. You said as long as we were happy, nothing else mattered."

She looked at me intently, her voice unwavering.

"So what are you saying now? That I should be heartless and abandon them?"

Straightening her posture, she met my eyes.

"Zach, I’m a mother. You don’t have children, so you can’t possibly understand a mother’s love. I can’t just turn my back on them. This is my responsibility."

After speaking, she stood up and looked at me in silence.

"Zach, I know this is hard for you to accept right now. That’s okay... take your time, think it over. I still hope you can accept the children. After all, they carry my blood. I can’t just turn my back on them."

She gathered all the relatives and friends, leading them out of the house, leaving me alone on the sofa, drained and empty.

I grabbed a bottle of wine, leaned back, and drank in silence.

Moments later, my phone buzzed. The private investigator had sent me a video and a series of photos. I opened them with a bitter smile.

Ever since the truth came out, my mother-in-law and her friends stopped hiding. The detective captured everything—clear, undeniable proof.

There they were, a happy family of five, openly visiting a hotel playground. They dined in a restaurant, played games together, and attended the children’s classes as a unit.

They were just ordinary photos, yet they made my chest ache.

If my father were still alive, he would have slapped me across the face and called me a fool.

But he’s gone now. Liver cancer took him a year ago.

Before he passed, he gripped my hand and told me to live well, not to let this burden weigh me down. "If it really doesn’t work out, just adopt a child," he had said.

I thought I had cried all my tears over the past few days, but seeing Sabrina with her real family—laughing, whole, complete—broke me all over again.

How? How could she treat me like this after everything I had done for her?

And my mother-in-law—she was no different.

No matter how hard times got at the furniture factory, I never once failed to send her 20,000 dollars a month for her living expenses. She claimed she had anemia and heart problems, needed therapy and health supplements. I never questioned it.

At dawn, I called the demolition team.

"I agree to invest the demolition money into the financial management fund. I’ll come over to sign the papers later."

By the time Sabrina returned home, I was drunk, my face streaked with dried tears.

With guilt in her eyes, she helped me onto the bed, wiping my face with a warm towel.

The scent of cologne on her skin made my stomach churn.

She had been with them all night. In the house, I bought it for her mother.

Sabrina lifted my head and pressed a cup of warm water to my lips. She kissed my hair, whispering, "I’m sorry" over and over again.

For a brief moment, I felt like we were ten years younger. Back when my father had stood firmly against our relationship, when we had no money and rented a tiny basement apartment.

Life was tough then. My father had cut off all my financial support, desperate to keep me from marrying into her family.

We survived on cold steamed buns and instant noodles. But Sabrina loved me back then. She never complained. She ran deliveries with me, even saved up for the cheapest bathroom essentials.

At night, when I was exhausted and drunk, she would cradle me in her arms, crying softly, apologizing for making my life so difficult. She begged me to leave her, to go home, to forget about her.

But I never did.

I held her close now, just like I did back then.

"Sabrina... let them go, okay? We’ll still support them financially, but please—just stay away from them. Can we do that?"

Her body tensed. She stopped moving.

I sobered up instantly.

Slowly, I pushed myself upright, staring at her with a wry smile.

"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why didn’t you come to me when you wanted a child?"

"Sabrina, how could you be so cruel to me?"

Anger surged through me. I swung my fist into the glass cabinet. Shards exploded in all directions, and blood dripped from my knuckles.

For days, I stayed at the furniture factory, throwing myself into work, dealing with the aftermath of the demolition.

That afternoon, after finalizing a merger deal with Mr. Wang, my phone rang.

Sabrina.

I hesitated, then answered indifferently.

"Zach, come home tonight. I need to talk to you."

I knew we had to face this eventually.

"Alright," I said flatly.

But when I opened the door that evening, I froze.

For a second, I thought I had stepped into the wrong house.

The lights were on—every wall lamp, every crystal chandelier. Cartoons played on the TV.

And in the living room, three little boys sat together, laughing, snacking, playing.